I Have Seen Hell, and It's Hair was Spiky

Today was the first day of classes for the fall semester up here at BYU. I left my friend Matt's apartment after watching him play Starfox on his N64 for like an hour and made my way to my second class of the day, Chemistry 101. My first class was inconsequential, Civilization and Music. The only interesting thing is that my Professor is British.

I had been up here all of Summer term so I was feeling pretty good about knowing my way around campus. I found my class and took a seat. The professor was old, and according to his reviews on rate my professor, not very engaging. I soon discovered that was true. Oh well, science is meant to be boring. (I don't care if you like science, unless you are a Mythbuster you are probably a boring person.) The most exciting part of the class came when he blew up a bunch of balloons filled with Nitrogen and made a huge fireball. That's all I really remember.

As I left class, my attention was immediately caught by a beautiful woman walking directly in front of me. It is not an uncommon occurrence to be in the vicinity of at least three beautiful women at any given time on this campus. The plethora of attractive females here creates a phenomenon that makes it seem as though the sidewalks are paved with gold and the drinking fountains dispense cold lemonade. I wanted to talk to her but I didn't because I'm more than less of a coward and I think she was married anyway.

I scanned my schedule for the location of my next class when all of a sudden I was launched into a weird moment of reminiscing. I instantly recalled my first day of middle school.

I remember obsessively checking my schedule to make sure I was in the right class and feeling really cool because I was actually going from class to class instead of staying in one classroom all day. My standards for feeling cool really haven't changed I guess cause I felt really cool today walking from class to class in college. Sure I'm a lame freshman, but it's whatever.

I remember the night before my first day at Rosemont Middle School, aka, Satan's Vacation Home, I found a box of my Dad's old sweaters and I don't know why but I thought it would be a good idea to wear one of them on my first day of school. As it turns out the reaction of 12 and 13 year olds seeing some kid wearing a giant old man sweater is not, "Oh he is cool and different, let's be his friend!" It's more like: "Kill him." So right off the bat I was behind on the whole friend making thing.

I walked into my first class, which was English, and for some reason the two other kids who were already in there were just standing by their desks not sitting down. I assumed they knew more than me so I just stood by my desk too, thinking, "wtf why can't we sit? is this a middle school thing or something? Why doesn't anyone like my sweater?"

As more kids filed in they saw us standing and they didn't know what to do either so they just stood by their desks too. So we were all just standing there for no reason when the teacher walked in and told us to sit down and asked why we were standing.

I'm sorry. That was a terrible story that I just told, it had no point and there was no punch line so I apologize for telling it. I guess I could just delete it, negating the need for this apology, but I already wrote and I hate to waste things. I guess I'm a story hoarder, I can't throw them away no matter how disgusting or terrible they are.

You know what, I take back part of my apology (again I could just delete my apology negating the need for this take-back but it's whatever). I take back part of it because this story does have a purpose; it reminds me of how clueless and naive I was that day. (I have no idea if the use of that semi-colon in the last sentence was correct, I never really learned what those are used for, but I'm gonna leave it there cause I think it may be right. If not, then well, I don't care.)

I was forced into a completely foreign environment without any real friends and teachers that would rather make you feel bad about yourself than treat you like a human being. In their eyes, being 12 years old automatically made you guilty of everything,and they took on the role of prison guard rather than instructor.

In my math class I saw the prettiest girl ever. At least I thought she was. I remember when it came time to switch seats I wished so hard to sit next her and then I actually ended up being assigned as her seat partner. On this inside I was shooting of fireworks and swift-kicking all of the other guys in my class in the face, but in reality I just sat down and proceeded to not say a single word to her for three months. Actually that's a lie because one time she asked me, "Why do you always wear old man sweaters?"

And I just said:

"I don't know."

and sighed.

I think she felt bad for me, because one time she waved to me in the hallways. Or maybe she was in love. I guess I'll never know. But I'm pretty sure it's because she felt bad.

Fast forward to today. In college. The time went somewhere, I just wasn't there to see it go by. At least that's what it seems like. Almost as if I went to bed after that first day of middle school and woke up the next morning in my dorm room.

I am no longer afraid to talk to that pretty girl sitting next to me in Chemistry, though I am incapable of making it so she doesn't pity my poor attempts at conversation.

I am also incapable of doing simple mathematics as it took me three attempts on my online homework tutorial to correctly calculate the sum of 9360 and 3140.

Is it a bad sign that I got legitimately nervous when my Chemistry class prerequisites were listed as "An understanding of basic mathematical principles"?

Probably.

The Rooster Crows at Midnight

Things don't always work out the way you want. I used to own three chickens and a rooster. They lived in a coop we built in our backyard and I loved them. Except the rooster. Every night I would have to put the rooster in one of those carriers you put your cats in to travel or go to the vet or something, and then put him in the garage. This was necessary because apparently the neighbors didn't enjoy being awoken at the crack of dawn by the screechy crowing of a flea infested farm bird. The combined muffling of the cat carrier, the blanket over the cat carrier, and the garage itself was enough to keep the neighbors from complaining about the noise.

The rooster quite clearly resented this situation and he let me know it. This bird I speak of was born straight from the depths of hell. His feathers were preened and groomed by the devil himself, I am sure. Every night, when I would go to collect the rooster I had to arm my self with plastic whiffle bat. It was the only thing the infernal buzzard was afraid of. Sometimes though, I didn't have the bat and I was forced to face that fowl beast one on one, my physical prowess against his. (Which was considerable, especially in comparison to a chubby 11 year old.)

He would spread his ugly black wings and cluck various chicken threats directed at me. I would shakily stand my ground for about 10 seconds before the rooster, smelling my fear, would bull rush me and commence its attack on my calves.

I would run away in complete and horrendous terror, never looking looking back at the beast that was no doubt, right behind me. I would have to make it to the stair case leading to the back door because once there, he wasn't able to follow me. I knew though, that just like his ancestor the velociraptor, the rooster would soon learn how to climb the steps, open the back door, find me where I slept, and pluck my eyes out. This fear paralyzed me.

My father, Floyd, turned this into a teaching moment.

"Son" he said, "All you have to do is look that rooster in the eye and say 'NO!' when he tries to come at you and he will back off. Trust me."

For some reason I trusted him.

He ushered me out the back door and sent me to the back of the garage to face my enemy. I walked out there with all the confidence of a 12 year old girl going to hang out with boys for the first time. (in retrospect, it was wayyyyy too much lip gloss.)

I opened the door of the coop.

There he was. standing stock still, as if he had been waiting for me. Our eyes locked and he slowly spread his wings. The exchange went like this:

Rooster: "Can I help you?"(He took a few steps forward.)

Me: "No!" (very forcibly)

Rooster: "Excuse me?"(a few more steps forward)

Me: "No!" (still strong, but fear beginning to creep in)

Rooster: "I'm sorry, I'm just having a very hard time hearing you."(more steps)

Me: "No!" (almost no strength left, mostly fear)

Rooster: "Oh you're saying no to me? is that it? is that what you're saying?" (he moved even closer)

Me: "No?" (No strength, absolute fear)

Rooster: "I"M GOING TO KILL YOU!!!"

I turned and ran as the devil-bird launched his attack. It was a race for the back staircase. Man vs. Beast, beast having the upper hand. I could see my Father standing at the top of the stairs, looking utterly shocked that his strategy had somehow failed. I was less than 5 feet from safety (about 1.5 meters for my European readers) when the rooster launched himself and with the precision of a laser guided missile, embedded his beak into the back of my leg. I had lost.

I limped up the stairs to where my father was standing. An awkward moment passed as we stood there not saying anything and blood trickled down my leg. I think he was trying not to laugh. I just shook my head and went inside.

After that I would periodically "forget" to get the rooster out of the garage in the mornings after he was done crowing. Also I learned that actions speak much louder than words because a few well placed kicks when he wasn't looking kept the incidents to a minimum from thereon out.

Eventually we sent the rooster to live on our cousin's farm where it was consequently eaten by a coyote. Sweet sweet justice.

Members of PETA can send their emails here: shutup@beefisdelicious.com

Everyone else here: jwalters@thesneakynarwhal.com